Chapter 11
The federal penitentiary visiting room smelled of industrial disinfectant and stale floor wax. Through the thick, reinforced glass partition, Richard Vance stared at his own distorted reflection. The man in the glass looked hollowed out, his eyes sunken, his skin pale from months spent under fluorescent indoor lighting. The grey jumpsuit felt heavy and coarse against his shoulders, a far cry from the tailored Italian wool suits he had worn for decades.
The heavy steel door at the other side of the partition clicked open, and Eleanor stepped into the booth. She wore a simple dark trench coat, her blonde hair tied back in a neat, unassuming knot. She didn't look like the society hostess who had stood in the Grand Meridian lobby; she looked like a woman who had finally shed a crushing burden.
She sat down on the metal stool and picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver. Richard hesitated for a moment before lifting his own receiver to his ear.
“Eleanor,” Richard rasped, his voice cracking slightly.
“Richard,” she replied, her tone devoid of anger, of bitterness—devoid of everything except a quiet, sorrowful finality.
“Did you get the papers?” he asked, staring at her through the smudged glass.
“The divorce was finalized this morning,” Eleanor said evenly. “My legal team has transferred the remaining corporate holdings into a restitution fund for the families of the soldiers who were lost in that sector thirty years ago. Your name has been permanently removed from the foundation.”
Richard closed his eyes for a brief second, feeling a sharp, burning sensation behind his eyelids. He didn't argue. He knew he had nothing left to bargain with. “Is there anything left for me?”
“Only the truth, Richard,” Eleanor said softly, leaning slightly closer to the glass. “You chose survival at the cost of everyone else around you. You lived a lie for thirty years, convincing yourself that your success justified your treason. But a house built on ash always collapses in the end.”
“Arthur... is he still here?” Richard asked, the name feeling foreign and bitter on his tongue.
May you like
“Arthur went back to the mountains last week,” Eleanor answered. “He’s helping establish a memorial for the unit. He finally laid his ghosts to rest, Richard. I hope you can find a way to do the same, because you’re going to have a very long time to think about it in this place.”
Richard opened his eyes, but Eleanor had already set the receiver down on the cradle. She stood up without looking back, walking out of the visiting room and leaving him alone with his reflection in the glass, surrounded by the silent walls of his own making.
